Christine Warren - Huntress

“No,” he said. “No, we’re not leaving her to finish what she started.”

After a moment, Ava nodded. “We can’t.”

Jack stopped, still clinging to her, and swung himself around.

“You wish to petition me for mercy?” Areshko growled when Jack turned back.

“Fuck off,” he said. “Let the Fallen ponce go and just fuck off, back to Hell or wherever you came from.”

Areshko bared her teeth at him. “And if I do not?”

“Then, luv, I’m going to exorcise you,” Jack said. “And I’m going to enjoy it.”

The toe of his boot nudged Ava’s iron knife and he scooped it up.

“Die, mage,” Areshko hissed. “Meet the Triumvirate head-on.”

Jack spread his arms, even though the pain lanced him like hot iron. “I’m right here, darling. Come and take me.”

Areshko sprang, and Jack took her swipe full on, letting her hands grip him and pull him close.

He turned the iron knife in his hand and threw it to Ava.

She gripped it and said the banishing words. “Return to the place called home. Return to the darkness. Return to the void. Areshko, you are welcome no longer. Begone.”

Areshko latched her lips on to his, blue pointed tongue and white pointed teeth slicking and cutting his lips. Jack’s senses deadened, and just for a moment the agonizing scream of Areshko’s power ceased inside his mind. “I could give you this, mage,” she whispered against his mouth. “I could take it all away from you.”

Jack’s stomach twisted. No more nightmares, no more visions. No more feeling his mind fraying with every hour that passed.

All he had to do was turn around and stop Ava, and allow Areshko to consume Nazaraphael. All he had to do was nothing, as she grew fat on her Hunger.

“The flesh is weak,” Areshko said. “Too weak to see what you see. It will be your end, mage, slow and rotting from inside to out.”

“I have no doubt.” Jack sighed. He met her blazing eyes. “But I don’t deal with demons.” He spun Areshko like a lover into Ava’s path as she swept the knife up and buried the blade in the soft portion of Areshko’s back, between the ribs, blue blood spilling on white brands.

“Return to Hell, your mother,” Ava rasped. “Bound by iron, begone.”

Areshko screamed, and Nazaraphael shimmered back into existence on the ground. Areshko twitched and twisted against the banishing iron, wielded by an exorcist, and then she began to fade—first her skin and then her bones and finally the brands, hints of ghostly white, before she evaporated completely.

Ava held out the knife to Jack, her hand quivering. “Take it. I don’t need it anymore.”

Jack took the knife and flipped it, crouching so that he held the point against Nazaraphael’s neck. Jack’s wound hurt again, but at least he wasn’t slipping away toward the Bleak Gates.

“Now,” he said, “you’re going to tell this poor girl how you lied.”

Nazaraphael’s lip curled. “I am full-blood Fallen.”

“You’re full of shite, is what you are,” Jack snarled. “Say it. Tell Ava what you did.”

Nazaraphael looked into him, with his dead eyes. “Your soul will dance on the coals for this, Winter.”

“Tell me news, wanker.” Jack pushed the knife in, drawing a bead of blood, and Nazaraphael hissed.

“I am demon.” He gritted his teeth, trying to crawl away from Jack’s ministrations.

Ava let out a cry. “Daniel …”

“He burns. And he will forever.” Nazaraphael grinned. “I wanted Areshko. I said what was necessary.”

Jack stood up, swaying. “Go back to Hell and pray I never set eyes on you again.”

Nazaraphael faded in a swell of smoke, and the only sound echoing throughout Catacomb City was Ava’s sobbing.

When Ava was fit to move, Jack took her to Nina’s mum’s flat. The lock wasn’t anything special, and he let them in and left Ava to wash herself off and find clothes.

Jack waited in the sitting room, looking at Nina’s family pictures.

“She had a nice family.” Ava was wearing a jumper and jeans. Her face was scrubbed, her hair tangled and damp.

“She seemed like a nice girl,” Jack said. “For a necromancer.” He fished in his pocket for the last of his gig money, a hundred quid, and laid it on the mantle next to the picture of Nina and her dad grinning outside the O2 dome in London. He knew it was meaningless, considering what had been lost, but it was the only thing he had to give.

“I shouldn’t have lied to you,” Ava murmured, “about Nazaraphael and I bargaining. I met Daniel when I was so young. He loved me, and I loved him, and when he died—”

“Ava.” Jack shook his head. “Ava, Ava. Enough with that. I know what you are. You’re a liar and a sinner, just like me.”

Her mouth curved up. “We had fun though, didn’t we, Jack?” She leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him softly.

Jack returned it, and then regretfully stepped away. “I could get used to you, Ava. Even if you are insane.”

“Mmm. You could come to New York.” She tugged on his waistband. “Help me hunt. Might be fun.”

Jack chuckled. “I do like you, Ava. If I never meet another one of you, it will be too soon.” He opened Nina’s door. “Take care of yourself, luv.”

“Jack.” Her eyes filled up. “Don’t leave. We could do so much good together …”

“Ava”—Jack shook his head—“I’m not a good man. You should know by now.”

“I suppose,” she sighed, “that’s why I picked you.”

“We’ve both got our shadows,” said Jack. “Don’t let them drown you, Ava.”

Jack left the flat and stepped out under an iron gray sky, walking away from Ava and waiting for the rain to fall.

Paris, 1889

I leaned forward in my seat, resting my hands on the railing of our private box at the Paris Opera, and watched my friend Justine take the stage. As the music washed over me, I smiled, remembering the night when Henri Meilhac, Bizet’s librettist, had first seen her perform, and had announced that she had been born to play the role of Carmen. It was fortunate that Devlin, Justine’s consort, had turned her into a vampire, or she would have missed the opportunity by about two hundred years.

The door behind me softly opened and closed a moment before Michael slid silently into the seat next to me. Glancing at him, I admired how handsome he looked in his black evening clothes. I turned to scold him for missing the opening, but the expression on his face halted my words.

“What is it?” I whispered.

“I was delayed by a warden who insists on speaking with you immediately,” Michael replied.

I glanced across the theater to the box where Antoine, the vampire Regent of Paris, sat surrounded by his lieutenants and ladies.

“Why the devil does one of Antoine’s wardens need to talk to me?” I asked impatiently.

Michael shook his head. “He’s not Antoine’s, love. He’s English.”

“Oh, bugger,” I muttered and sank into my chair.

Devlin, Justine, Michael, and I were The Righteous.

We were in essence the police force of the vampire world, answerable only to the High King of the Vampires. It was our job to deal with anything that a Regent or his wardens couldn’t handle. Mostly this consisted of executing rogue vampires who broke the laws set down by the High King. Sometimes, however, we were called in to deal with more delicate matters, such as deposing a ruler who had gone mad, or refereeing a local power struggle. The names of The Righteous were spoken in fearful whispers throughout the vampire nation and no Regent would ask for our help lightly. If a warden had come all the way to Paris from England to find us, it could only mean that our brief holiday, and Justine’s run as Carmen, was about to come to an abrupt end.